


New Years Day

by soyforramen



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, New Years prompt, Riverdale Writing Challenge, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyforramen/pseuds/soyforramen
Summary: Cleaning up on New Years Day was tough enough, but at least Fred had F.P. to help.





	New Years Day

The New Year greeted Fred with a chorus of elephants dancing the meringue in his skull. He groaned and the sound sent reverberations through his entire body. Someone had put a package of Alka Seltzer and a glass of water on his bedside table -

(Perfume leading him upstairs, a laugh as he tripped over a rug, a kiss on his forehead as he faded into the swirling, tumbling, crumbling darkness)

\- that he knew he should take. Instead he pulled a pillow over his head to hide from the blinding brightness of a new morning.

The next time he could bring himself to open his eyes, the light around him was a warm softness that heated the entire room. The elephants had thankfully left the dancefloor leaving behind a pair of waltzing hippos. He sat up, and his stomach threatened to reveal the entirety of last night’s revelry. 

He rubbed his eyes. It hurt too much to think. Images of last night flashed behind his eyelids -

(Drinks pressed into hands, kisses pressed to lips, hips pressed into hips)

\- and as much as he wanted to sleep in, Fred knew there was more to be done. With all the reluctance of a man facing the consequences of his own actions, he downed the bubbling water as quickly as he could. His stomach lurched and he braced himself against an oncoming tide of Jack and Coke and beer and vodka until his stomach settled.

“Shower. Coffee. Food,” he muttered to himself until he took his own advice. 

A hot shower and quick worship at the porcelain god later -

(God, I’ll never drink again, just let me make it through today) 

\- and he was a shade closer to his normal self. He dressed slowly, feeling ten times older. 

(Mary asking for a party; Marty asking for a shot. Hermione asking for a kiss; F.P. asking to be let in.)

At the top of the stairs Fred assessed the damage in front of him. He had a day and a half to get rid of all evidence that there was ever a party here. His mother returned tomorrow. His poor, long suffering mother who finally trusted her seventeen year old son to stay alone at home. 

(“No drinking, no drugs, and for god’s sake no girls.”)

The house was as he’d barely remembered leaving it. Bottles and cans were strewn across every flat surface. The sofa had been stripped bare of it’s cushions. At the bottom of the stairs lay a high heeled shoe -

(Marty tottering on wobbling ankles, feet too large. Hermione chasing him, anger and amusement mixing together. Fred missed it when she looked at him that way, before Hiram, before homecoming, before Featherhead)

\- and a scattered array of polaroids. There was a trail of wax on the hardwood floor that lead to the kitchen, and Fred followed it like a prophecy.

“Coffee. Food. Cleanup,” Fred said softly.

It wasn’t until after three, two pots of coffee, and three bagels that Fred felt capable of standing upright let alone tackling the monstrous cleanup job before him. 

Even if he left the house this way he knew he wouldn’t get in trouble. His mother would sigh and avoid eye contact while she set about cleaning up the mess. She’d avoid all but the required conversation with him for a week, content to let her disappointment show all the ways he’d failed her. 

And in almost every way her disappointment was worse than any punishment he could think of.

Fred grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and diligently picked his way through the discarded trash littered throughout the kitchen. It wasn’t until he reached the living room that he realized he wasn’t alone in the house.

He squatted down and rolled the -

(oh thank god, no blue lips, chest still rising up and down, no blue lips, movement behind eyelids, no blue lips, flicker of fingertips, no blue lips) -

\- still sleeping F.P. onto his back. Fred stared at him a moment. It had been a long time since he’d seen F.P. this still, this calm. Even in sleep the man personified everything Fred knew he had to stay away from. Sharp angles and flight risks, charm and deception. 

Fred couldn’t say what happened with any certainty. They’d grown apart - 

(split apart, too many closeted secrets between them, mascots hidden in closets, a run on second base in closets, dead men in closets)

\- but F.P. was still one of his closest friends. Even though they saw each other in passing, Fred still knew F.P. well enough to know his every thought. It had been a welcome surprise when he’d shown up last night for both of them. 

And even if things hadn’t changed between them , F.P. was hardworking and loyal, two traits Fred needed if he wanted to get the house clean before tomorrow.  
Fred poked F.P. not so gently in the ribs. 

“Time to get up.”

F.P. groaned and rolled over, his hand grasping for a blanket that wasn’t there. 

“Alice is outside looking for you. She found out you were the one who stole her walkman.”

F.P. sat up, eyes bloodshot, hair standing on end. He looked around the room frantically, but when he spotted Fred he relaxed. 

“Alice isn’t here, is she?”

Fred grinned and shook his head. “You’re still scared of her?”

“I’m not stupid,” he said, his words broken up by a yawn. “Hell of a party, man. Never knew a square like you’d throw a party like that.”

(F.P. on the front porch, keg on his shoulder, pockets filled with candy, fireworks in the living room, lifted to the ceiling, a serpent’s offering to swallow you whole)

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Never knew you started dealing.”

He held out a spare trash bag and stood up. One bottle in the bag turned into three more on the sideboard. Two cans thrown away multiplied to four. 

Behind F.P. yawned and stood up. His back cracked as he stretched. 

“Gotta pay the bills somehow.”

Sideboard now clear of trash and swept free of glitter -

(Glitter danced in the air, Mary playing hostess. Glitter trailed behind F.P. disappearing through the hallway. Glitter behind his eyelids, Fred tugged into a closet. Glitter in his mouth, tongue, throat, heart, soul as F.P.’s hands threaded through his hair.)

\- Fred turned his attention to the coffee table. Across the room F.P. held open his trash bag and Fred arced an empty can through the air. It landed in the bag and rattled against the rest of the trash.

“Andrews for the win! What a jump shot, haven’t seen anything like that since Larry Byrd! And the Bulldogs are going to state!” F.P. crowed. He hissed the noise of a crowd, and for just a moment they were kids again. Dreaming big dreams of fame and fortune.

Fred chuckled and shook his head. He scooped potato chips off the cushionless couch and into the trash bag, bowl and all. 

“Doubt we’ll make it this year. Not with Clayton out for the season.”

“Shouldn’t have been kissing Sierra. Doesn’t he know she’s still Tom’s girl at heart?” F.P. tsked and picked up a vase passed down from some great-aunt or another. He shook it over the trash bag and ashes floated out. “There’s always next year.”

Fred stopped and looked at F.P. “We’re graduating this year.”

F.P. cleared his throat and turned his back to Fred. “Yeah. Right, of course we are. I meant for the kids behind us. Maybe they’ll finally have a chance now that you All Stars are moving on to the big city.”

“Maybe,” Fred said, thoughtful. 

The strange, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach returned. It was the same one he’d been getting around F.P. since that last detention. It was their senior year and everyone was talking about their college plans. 

At least, everyone but F.P. As Fred thought about it, he realized he’d seen less and less of F.P. around school. Sure, F.P. could be found haunting Pop’s, the record store, and the Twilight. They all could. But he’d been the only one who hadn’t been in homeroom, physics, or even the cafeteria since he’d broken his arm.

“So what are the BMOC’s big plans after high school?” Fred asked as nonchalantly as he could. 

He felt like a mountain climber trying to find the correct footing. They didn’t talk about serious things. Not about F.P.’s father, not about Fred’s. Not about how suffocating this town was. It just wasn’t them. But maybe it should be.

The change in the air was palpable but Fred continued, desperate for an answer -

(Can’t ever pin him down, opinions always shifting, big dreams, no plans to achieve them. Push and pull, promises of forever, actions for tonight. Can’t get him to commit, can’t break his heart, can’t -)

“Washington State? Michigan? Florida? Or are you going to wander around the states like Jack Kerouac like you’ve always threatened?” 

F.P. shook out another trash bag and moved into the foyer as if he’d never heard Fred. He leaned back and let out a low long whistle as he looked at the ceiling.

“How the hell’d they even get that up there?”

Fred went to stand by F.P. and craned his neck to the ceiling. Someone had managed to write a crude remark about Weatherbee’s sexual proclivities that threatened to turn Fred’s stomach once more.

“I’m more concerned with how we’re going to get it off.”

F.P. shifted his weight. His hip grazed Fred’s arm -

(Subtle touches, accidental. Lightening and thunder and fire and ice and forever and never, always wanting more more moremoremore)

\- as he peered at the red paint.

“Almost a work of art if you squint just right.”

Fred snorted. “You said the same thing about Alex Muggs last summer.”

F.P. shrugged, a crooked grin on his face. “Think we should get a ladder? Or -”

“What are you doing next year, F.P.? Have you even thought about your future?”

“You’re starting to sound like my old man, Fred,” F.P. said. His tone was jovial, but the tenseness in his jaw, the strain in his neck was more of a warning than any rattle heard in the fields.

Long since used to F.P.’s attempts to change an uncomfortable situation, Fred forced himself to face it head on. Ask F.P. about his ‘work’, or his family, or the future, or even his new ‘friends,’ and before you knew it you were talking about football and movies and cars. 

Usually Fred tried not to push things. If he was patient enough, if he showed he cared, the answers and the reasons would present themselves naturally. But now, with so much already on his shoulders, with so many people relying on him, Fred couldn’t have any ‘what-if’s’ in his life. He needed to know if F.P. was going to stay by his side, be reliable and steady and true, or if he’d bail on Fred the minute something better came along.

Fred had too much at stake to bet the house on a man who could break him in so many ways.

“What are you doing next year, F.P.?” he repeated softly.

F.P.’s lip raised in a snarl and he turned his back to Fred. He shoved his hands into his pockets. 

With a crack of his gum -

(A game between them, who could keep the gum the longest. Chasing, eluding, pursuing, evading. Tracked to dark closets and dark spaces and tongues and teeth and suddenly you’d lost the mark to hunt again.)

\- F.P. paced the floor. 

“F.P. -”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” 

F.P. stormed out the front door. It swung on its hinges to clatter against the doorframe. With an aching heart, Fred watched him walk down the sidewalk and out of view.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Fred watched the door a few minutes, hoping this was another of F.P.’s blow ups that just needed to come out. It quickly became apparent he wasn’t coming back.

“Good going, Andrews. Just like homecoming.”

Alone in an empty house, Fred let out a heavy sigh and got to work. 

It wasn’t long until the house was somewhat back to its normal state. The late afternoon light cast long shadows about the room, half remembered moments from the night before. Fred picked up several trash bags by the back door and walked out to the car port. He stuffed as many in the trash can that would fit and left the rest alongside the wooden slats of the wall. 

He stretched out his back and went to his father’s old fridge, still stuffed with cheap beer -

(Twelve and tipsy, “He’ll kill us,” “Not if we’re quiet,” first kiss in a treehouse, not knowing what it meant, only that he wanted to repeat it again and again and again)

\- his mother hadn’t had the heart to throw out yet. On a whim he grabbed a second. Hair of the dog to chase away the pain, as his father always said. Fred popped the top on one and drank deeply as he walked to the backyard.

He was surprised to find F.P., shirtless and covered in a layer of sweat despite the chill in the air, wandering the backyard picking up trash. Fred sat on the back step and drank his beer as he waited for F.P. to notice him. F.P. turned and there on his forearm was a serpent coiled to strike. The tattoo hadn’t been there last summer - 

(Skinny dipping at Sweetwater, hooping and hollering, lazy days and long hot nights)

\- and it’s presence on F.P.’s back felt like a prophecy. Fred stared into the snake’s yellow eyes as if to challenge its presence on F.P.’s body. 

Before Fred could finish his beer, F.P. turned and nodded at him. He wiped the sweat from his brow and walked to Fred, a swagger in his hips. Fred held out the second beer and F.P. collapsed on the stairs beside him. F.P. open it and drank half of it in one swallow.

“You don’t have to be like him, you know,” Fred said quietly.

F.P. lifted the bottle to his lips but didn’t drink. “We are our parents, aren’t we?”

Fred looked at F.P. in a way he hadn’t been able to in years. F.P. had his mother’s profile, Grecian and strong. He was his mother’s child that way. F.P. never seemed to break under pressure. Instead he bowed and slid and bent his way through tough situations, persistent and supple. F.P. was always twisting, his words, his reality, his situation. 

It was enviable, sometimes. The Andrews were nothing like that. They were the oak trees. Sturdy, reliable, and likely to end up with their roots exposed if there was a strong enough wind. Just like his father - 

(Warned for years about his cholesterol, blood pressure, diet. Unwilling to change, always eating and drinking and smoking. Quarrels about his habits, his mother crying over a coffin. His father lying cold in -)

\- before he passed. Fred wondered if he’d end up the same.

He set his empty bottle on the steps next to him and looked over the work F.P. had accomplished. The yard was picked clean of debris, the carport hosed down. Three full trash bags and an empty keg were lined up neatly along the fence line.

“We don’t have to be. You don’t have to work for him.”

F.P. snorted. “Who’d hire me? His name doesn’t go far in this town. And his name is my name.”

“Come work for me.”

F.P. turned and stared. Fred kept his face neutral, as if he’d thought this through. His every instinct reminded him of all the ways they didn’t fit together. One was reckless and wild, no responsibilities but to himself. The other with a mother and brother to look after, far too young to be saddled with a business and all it’s employees.

“Really?”

Fred nodded. He tugged F.P.’s beer from his hands and drank. “Really. We could always use an extra hand.”

“You’re a stand up guy, Fred Andrews,” F.P. said with a laugh. He smiled a crooked smile, half amused, half surprised.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” Fred shot back. “When you want to be.”

Twenty-some-odd years later, Fred woke up on New Year’s Day with a blinding headache. He’d stayed up too late last night, and after almost thirty years of waking up at 5 a.m. he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Even if he’d been able to, the early morning light shone right in his eyes.

“Coffee. Food. Shower,” he muttered to himself until he took his own advice. 

He sat up and his shoulder popped, reminding him once again how he couldn’t afford a chiropractor. When the pain subsided he slipped on his robe and made his way downstairs to survey the damage.

Bottles and cans covered every surface along with half-eaten plates of food, party hats, and streamers. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he found small polaroids strewn across the floor - 

(Toni balancing on Fangs’ and Sweet Pea’s shoulders, laughter loud and carefree. Jughead and Archie running from a prank gone run, Veronica and Cheryl angry and amused.)

\- certain someone would want to keep them. The kids had all been so tickled when Betty pulled out the old polaroid she’d found in the attic, though they had been a bit disappointed when F.P. informed them that no, they shouldn’t shake it ‘like a polaroid picture.’

A loud snore came from the living room and Fred slipped the pictures into the robe’s pockets as he walked to the next room. Laid out on the couch, his long legs crooked in odd angles, F.P. was sound asleep.

Fred chuckled at the sight of it. It had been a long time since he’d seen F.P. so relaxed. He left him there and went to the kitchen to brew the strongest pot of coffee he could. Two cups of coffee, four ibuprofen, and a bowl of oatmeal later, Fred dropped a pair of Alka Seltzer tablets into a glass of water and set it on the coffee table next to F.P.

He went back to the kitchen and pulled out a trash bag to clean up the kitchen. It wasn’t long until F.P. joined him, his eyes bloodshot, hair standing on end.

“Hell of a party, Fred.” 

Fred poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to them, fingers brushing. F.P. leaned against the doorframe -

(Ducking through doorframes, a kiss at midnight, promises of new beginnings, promises to try, just one more chance, don’t give up)

\- and yawned as he took stock of the kitchen.

“Anytime. Besides, I’d rather have the kids here than over at that campsite you’ve been staying at. At least here we know what they’re up to.”

“Nothing like when we were kids, huh?” F.P. said with a laugh. He pushed off the doorframe and grabbed the trash bag from Fred. “I’ll tackle the dining room if you promise me some more of that coffee.”

“Deal.” 

As he handed over the bag, F.P. squeezed his hand before dropping it. “Thanks for letting the kids have their thing here. It’s nice to know someone still cares about them.”

Fred waved away his thanks. “Not a problem at all. It was fun.”

“Yeah. It was.”

F.P. cleared his throat. He knocked two knuckles against the kitchen island, eyes downcast. “And thanks. For helping me get through this. And not be, me. Last night.”

Fred crossed his arms and leaned against the cabinets. He’d been through this many times before as F.P. tried to get sober, but this was the second time Fred thought it might stick. 

“Recovery’s gonna take a long time, F.P. It’s not easy to get there, and it’s always a battle.”

“That’s what they tell us on Wednesdays. Doesn’t make it any easier.” 

F.P. ran a hand through his hair. His mouth opened and closed a few times as if he were unable to say what he needed to. But Fred had always known what F.P. wanted to say, even if F.P. couldn’t say it.

“For what it’s worth, I’m here for you. Always have been. You just have to say the word.”

F.P.’s eyes wavered with tears and he bit his bottom lip. “You’re a stand up guy, Fred Andrews.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, F.P. Jones.”

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit welcome!


End file.
